


Bonds

by IllusionaryEnnui



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU Past, Acceptance, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dubious Morality, Evalution, F/F, F/M, Family Dynamics, Feelings of Abandoment, Fluff, Half-Siblings, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Inner Dialogue, Mage Pairing, Mages, Magic Revealed, Moral Dilemmas, Morality, Multiple Pairings, Multiple Relationships, Needing to Prove Worthiness, Romance, Sexual Tension, Tension, Trevelyan Siblings, War, hopelessness, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-08 03:43:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3194012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IllusionaryEnnui/pseuds/IllusionaryEnnui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sacrifices we make are our burdens to bear, the losses just as a damning. This was not the life she had meant for them, but she would not let them fall. || AU, Cullen x F!Trevelyan Mage and Dorian x M!Trevelyan Mage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ubi Sunt

**Author's Note:**

> An AU where [slugette](http://slugette.deviantart.com/)’s Yvad is Mara’s young half-brother, their paths reunited after she retakes Skyhold and the rebel mages join the Inquisition. More or less chronicles their interactions as they try to find their place with the fall of the Circles while learning that they each can have something more than a gilded cage.

_Brother, brother mine  
Huddled in the fallen snow,  
where are you to go?_

Hardly more than a young man, the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces eyed the boy where he stood before them in the guard-tower. Very little of Yvad Trevelyan reminded Cullen of the Inquisitor. Yet something lingered in his eyes, even in their amethyst shade rather than the familiar dark amber, which struck him with the same determination and compassion. They were, however, less weathered.  
Did they not have enough trouble: Skyhold barely under their control, a bevy of rebels hosted beneath crumbling walls? With the Circle gone, a part of him felt for the mage. He understood the allure of Grand Enchanter Fiona’s bid for order among the chaos, of freedom and respect. Had he known of his fellows attacked after he left the Order himself, but what rapport would they have now? It sat in the pit of his stomach, congealing as it mixed with disdain – they had only learned themselves of the bloodshed at Therinfal Redoubt, the few survivors finding sanctuary within the old fortress. In one breath, Cullen was glad for their presence to counterbalance the influx of mages. However, in the next breath, it strained his own resolve – Maker, he could still taste it in the air.

“Know that you will receive no special treatment from me or any under our command. Even if the Grand Enchanter and the Inquisitor may vouch for you.”

“I don’t expect any,” Yvad assured him as he chewed on his lower lip. 

His robes, not heavy enough for the mountain weather, shifted with his feet, his balance moved from one foot to the other. A thin hand reached to brush a fallen ebony lock from his eyes. It was his own dreams and demons that called to him from the fallen, Alexius’ folly like molten lead worming through his veins. All he craved was their silence and the comfort of the one who mattered most. 

“Can I see her?”

“Your sister should be here shortly. Ambassador Montilyet had need of her for another matter.” 

Leaning to lay his vambrace across his desk, the commander’s amber stare fixed the mage in its line. Leather-clad fingers tapped an uneven rhythm on the hardwood to hide the subtle twitch of their lengths, the tremors growing worse each day. He knew his duty as he fought to keep his mind in check. His voice hardened, its timbre lowered as if to remind himself of the truth so he would not waver. “First and foremost, the Inquisition takes precedent above our own desires.”

Yvad returned the former templar’s gaze, full of curious ire. A fire burned in the man’s breast, a quiet, building flicker. He had seen it before, the need and fascination. Too many times he saw it dwell in the First Enchanter as he watched his sister grow under Lydia’s care, her path dictated by their design. But this man’s flame burned with a different light. Softer. Torn. He could not sense the lyrium readily in the commander’s blood, but there were chains like it, hooked deeply into both mind and body. Perhaps there was more to him than met the eye? Something held the warrior to the standard of command, masking him in it. But beyond that, Yvad could only guess what lay beyond the golden glare.

“And what of _her_ desires?” Incensed, his emotions simmered near the surface enough for the tingle of magic to ghost across the tips of his fingers. It set his teeth on edge even as instinct brought the Commander snapping to his feet, reaching for the hilt of his sword. No, the man would listen – they both had fought too hard for their ideals. For him, Mara had given Yvad everything in the Circle, gave him peace and strength. How could he let them forget she was as mortal as they were?

“The First Enchanter. The Inquisition. Every one of you try to use her. All she wanted was to help of us, to make things easier for mages AND templars alike.”

“And I’ve given her my promise that such destruction will never happen again. Corypheus may have taken hold of the Order, but I will NOT let their poison go unchecked.”

The young Trevelyan stepped back from the low roar. There it was, the same fire of an altered strain. What was this man? More than a commander of a growing army. More than a templar. There were ghosts clawing behind those eyes and something more. What made him burn at the mere mention of his sister’s trials? With a measured breath, Yvad allowed his magic fade and his mind to calm, sifting through query after query.

“What do you –“

“Yvad?”

All his bravado drained at the mere sound of his name, so soft as it fell from a welcome voice. He turned to see only Mara, not the tower around them, the commander’s dusty military tomes, nor the man in stranger garb beside her. All Yvad saw was his sister, all apprehension and kindness. Unlike their elder brother set to inherit what they could not, their only tied was the blood of Bann Trevelyan alone. He saw their father in her face, a fleeting memory, but he cared little for that man. He care for Mara, not the nobility had had been born into. Even his own mother had loved her, no more than an elven mistress herself to their father. It was she who hid their magic as they grew together, learned together, until their father banished them to the Circle, first her and he only a few years later. She was the one who saw him through the trials, through the hurt and fear. 

He wanted to speak, to tell her how much he had missed her, how he had feared for her. Even the Bann had thought her dead until the rumours became truth and inspiration. He had wanted to leave the rebels then, to flock to Haven. He never reached her in Redcliffe, held back by Fiona for his own safety. But he was here now – he wanted to help.

“Mara, I –”

“What were you thinking?!” Her righteous wrath mingled with her relief. Expecting a scolding, he bristled only to feel her arms fold around him, barely giving him room to breathe into the tangles of auburn. Whatever argument he could muster lost itself in her embrace, as comforting as he remembered. He forgot everything save that warmth.

“Now, don't smother the lad, Inquisitor. I imagine he's been through enough.”

Like spice and dark allure, the other man’s accent pierced Yvad’s haze. Further north than their own. Seheron? No, too far. Tevinter. The subtle, regal airs filled each word, distinct but telling. Yvad managed to pull away just enough to meet the steel-grey eyes smiling at him from behind his sister. All sun-kissed skin and stylish coif, every buckle and filigree polished and fine. Even in the aura of their own, his magic and stature stood out like a challenge, something worth reaching for. Who was this mage?

Courage and ease overtook Yvad then, his own fire fanned.

“And miss out on all the fun?” He flashed the Tevinter a smirk of his own, his words found again. “Not a chance.”


	2. Lacrimae Rerum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of the AU where [slugette](http://slugette.deviantart.com/)’s Yvad is Mara’s young half-brother. In this chapter, we learn more of their past, the trials of living under Bann Trevelyan alongside their elder brother and how much they suffered in their own way, Yvad’s hatred for the templars justified.
> 
> Trigger Warning: Torture, blood, and unwarranted violence.

_There are tears for things,_  
_for all we’ve lost and weathered._  
_Whose blood stains our hands?_

Inside the Circle, they had had so little. A little trinket or book bought from a traveling merchant, or something crafted by one of their fellows’ hands. Even those of noble blood thought little of the extravagance gathered in Skyhold. His robe dragged on fine Orlesian rug thrown down to ward away the hard stone’s cold. Bare were the bookshelves that had been lugged into place, but soon Yvad knew they would be brimming with Mara’s favourite tales of dragons and knights, perhaps even well-inked maps and enchantments. Already papers lay in disorganized piles, haphazard enough that one flicker of his magic might topple them.

Candlelight painted them in pleasant shades, the night growing longer. Outside, she bore the mantle of the Inquisitor with a strange stiffness, but with him in that sanctuary, he watched her cast it aside and flop on the great bed. The lavish silks flowed beneath a dirty nail as he dragged it over their tight, fanciful weave. A maid must have made up the bed, he noted - Mara had thrown down decorum and preferred ease over regime when the Circles fell. How many times had he found her sleeping in the same clothes, the same mussed nest of mended blankets for days before the Conclave?

“You might want to rein in your Ambassador.” A lazier length traced the inlaid gold of the headboard, only the slightest of scratches in the ivory paint where the labour had manoeuvred the frame into her quarters. On quiet feet, a blessing of his mother’s elven roots, Yvad shuffled around its edge to stretch out beside her, unruly ebony strands pooling in loose curls around his head. All around them was the same austere, elegant beauty Bann Casimir Trevelyan possessed even as the curves and whorls of Orlais etched themselves beneath his touch.

Would the man even acknowledge them now, each risen to a station beyond fate?

“You’re thinking of my father, aren’t you?”

_You know my mind too well, sister._

“He stopped being your father a long time ago.” Yvad’s palm sparked with electric tendrils, the storm magic called to the flare of his emotions. His fingers curled around its orb, the pale blue-white tongues harmless to him as he let its light wash their skin in its glow, bleeding away restrained indignation with each flicker. Less slender than his, Mara’s fingers reached up, the sparks dancing across from fingertip to fingertip. Her magic ran not as raw as his, but it had the same power, that same primal aspect even as she favoured the more spiritual and winter auras, jade and the dark blue of lazurite rather than the violet and silverite of his own, together a forest after the rain. The orb tumbled into her palm and with a gentle _hiss_ and _sizzle_ , it faded by her will into a veil of frost and with it, the brand of his rage.

“Better?”

She had missed this, missed that lofty scent of ozone, that unbridled passion he wore like his own armour - for all its cheek and worth, it had kept him alive.

Frost crusted her fingers as she crafted a dragon from the icy remnants of her brother’s magic, its filigreed wings and needle fangs almost lifelike. But like all mortal things, it would only last until its power dimmed. Mara breathed across it and the whole shattered, a flurry of beauty in reflecting crystal rather than a mere puddle - a pleasant death.

So like her.

In the more delicate enchantments her excellence thrived where his revelled in evocation, the erratic call of ebb and tide. But she had had the time, had the patience for it where he had not. Perhaps that was why they worked so easily together, like a lightning strike to a grounding staff.

“A little.”

Angled towards him and propped on one elbow, her hand smoothed over his shoulder, its bulk thinner than when they parted so many months ago. His amethyst gaze seemed tired, worn by burdens but brightened by his return to a familiar stay. Where her features manifested as earthy and soft, freckled by birth and the unfamiliar sunlight outside the tower, his were sharper and paler, named exotic by high cheekbones and curious irises. But that softness, that kindness writ in her countenance had always given him comfort.

During their youth, they had always been together, the second child meant as a pawn for the Great Game and the half-elven bastard. They never saw it as such, more content with what they had rather than the future. Their elder brother, heir to the Trevelyan estate, cared more for them than their father but love carried only so much weight in the struggle for power. If there was a good man of that nobility untried by the Game, Tristan Alun held such a title. Together, they grew, he their voice for freedom and equality within a cautious sphere of his own influence, innocence shielded. They wanted for nothing. Happiness lay there in that acceptance, the tender ties they shared clung to like faith.

If only they had known better…

_She had accepted it._

_Her brothers, however, did not._

_In the moonlight, she wept for herself, for the path stolen from her grasp and for the searing lashes her brother nursed for her sake at the Bann’s command. For all the pleading and power, Tristan could not dissuade the wishes of a zealous man and paid dearly for his cheek among nobility - they were children no longer. Not as children were meant to be._

_The deal struck its chord, the ink barely dry under coercion, her name signed in an indignant scrawl. Three years, her allowance. Her fate: endear herself to many a noble house for the prosperity of their own and garner the eye of some nobleman himself for a future engagement or offer herself to the Chantry under the Trevelyan tithe._

_Choose neither?_

_Exile from their lands, stripped of title and ties._

_What kind of cruelty was that, her virtue's future cast like lots, some traded trinket for favour? What kind of man, even one endowed by the Chantry, would whore his daughter for pride or proof of fealty to a dying breed?_

_She may have not cared for those last things, but she refused to surrender her family for their promise. Nor would she have those she loved sacrifice for her in return. Tristan’s wounds from the guard-captain's whip would heal, yes. But the scars would last - a steep price. Mara bore their sin as her own as she tended them, the cloths stained scarlet and the open flesh smothered in a miasma of their stores’ last elfroot and spindleweed, until their sting lulled him into a fitful slumber. She needed more to sooth their greater hurts, but she had given him all they had. A kiss left upon his sweating brow, she slipped away to sob and pray only to bring forth a more terrifying truth: she was helpless, no more able to change her father’s mind than to ease her brother’s pain._

_Why couldn’t she simply play her role? Why didn’t they let her? Was her mask so cracked and broken that they didn’t trust her to serve as she was meant?_

_Her late mother’s garden glowed so beautifully that night when her magic’s first breath whispered._

_It was their tenth year._

_Yvad had found her huddled among Rosette de Beaumont’s roses, the Orlesian buds blooming in the dead of winter where their vibrant crimson and pink shades held no match for the colour bleeding into tear-polished cheeks. Even he sensed that aura of magic, the hair at his nape rising to its subtle verve as it wrapped them and the garden in its vibe._

_Beautiful. Frightening. Damning._

**_Andraste, preserve them!_ **

_Quicker than silver, he had roused his mother, her plaited tresses like woven obsidian threads and her smile like spring, to the girl's side. Her pale, tapered ear belied her elven heritage beneath the unforgiving moon as she threw her shawl over shaking shoulders. With grace and sweeter ken, Lady Vianne led them all back into the grand house, the painful story told in hushed, sombre tones. The shadows their shroud, the old east wing swallowed them up, its ancient halls granted to the Bann’s mistress where she reigned over its halls and the servants, her mind educated and her beauty revered. Their Lord prized her even after all these years. Yet, Yvad held no kinship for his sire. Only Mara. His mother had loved her as much as her son for the compassion the Trevelyan girl gave them, their family as much her own. No more than a broken doll, Mara slept in their arms like they were her only anchor to a fading world slipping through her fingers. That anchor held only one other soul, one they trusted beyond their cautious bonds. Thus, Tristan swore himself to their cause, his back still oozing beneath its wheals the same kind eyes of their sister’s staring back them – the line of de Beaumont favoured him little save for that warmth, the steel-blue Casimir's shade._

But they all knew how fragile was the lie that suspended her fate.

Clanking and hard-edged, the silvered templars came for her three days later, the loose-tongues of servants condemning her to that gilded cage where his mother could hide her no more. Sequestered away in his study, the Bann never showed his face that morning, his own host of guards seeing to the Order’s owed obeisance instead. Yvad had wanted her to fight, but Mara only kissed his cheek and his mother hid her own tears as she kissed his sister’s brow. Into their hands, she let herself be led. Their brother had held him fast, hands tight on his arms, as one of the templars hoisted her up onto his horse, no ceremony or care as he swung himself up behind her slight frame.

Neither he nor his half-brother wagered they would ever see her face again, the red-rimmed eyes and the sadness like a mourning veil over her face etched into their memories.

How could Yvad have known he would follow barely a cycle of seasons later?

_Books, histories and dusty tomes of ancestry, filled the walls. Wrinkled, manicured digits lay flat, a twitch in their lengths the barest hint of strain. Aglow, a decanter of Antivan brandy painted a dull red-orange swath across a half-finished letter to some merchant. But the numbers and neat loops of Nevarran script hold little interest for Lord Casimir’s bastard._

_"The watch informs that you've been picking fights with the templar recruits in the village again, boy. Your sister is gone - leave it be. You know well the price for meddling in the affairs of one’s betters. Guard-Captain Ghilroi has certainly not forgotten his work nor has my **son**.” His Lordship’s quill flourished as he finished another line. Not one glance spared itself toward his bastard until he spoke again, his tone even darker. “You serve this house at my discretion and you could earn a greater lot if you had half a mind to, perhaps even join the Order if you had any skill with a sword. Nonetheless, I will **not** have this family's name soiled because a mere boy could not control his actions. Maker, has your mother not taught warned you of the value even your words possess?"_

_"But those whoresons called her names, my Lord! They said she's cursed by the Maker!” Shaking fists balled at his sides, the nails bitten deep into the milky skin of his palms. To invoke his own heir’s scars and dismiss the loss of his daughter – damn him! “And no, I will **NOT** be joining their bloody Order! How could you even suggest that after what happened to her!"_

_Thunder rumbled, a growing cadence. The books and inkwells rattled on their perches, echoes of what thrums in the very air. Bann Trevelyan leapt to his feet, his grey eyes narrowed on Yvad and his heavy chair screeching across the lacquered floor. Dread mounted, higher and louder, trembling on the roll of an unseen storm._

_“Boy, what have you done?!”_

_The power pulsed, a near-tangible ripple through the air. The young lad’s fingers clenched, his mind abuzz as he felt it lance through him. He breathed it out and on it, the darkened clouds conjured. With another crack, as if the Maker Himself had opened up the sky inside that luxurious space of rule, rain poured into his father’s study to ruin both the letter and his Lordship’s so-called_ discretion _._

Like his sister, his wayward emotions condemned him to the same fate.

His mother could not save him or spare him from Lord Casimir’s ire for even a single day. The templars arrived once the sun kissed the horizon for one last moment, their armour gleaming in the twilight. Bann Trevelyan did not grant him any comfort as he had his own daughter, his bastard blood worth even less than hers to him. A severe, scathing decree locked Yvad inside the tiny gaol of the barracks, a space usually slated for the drunken and the unruly, until his jailors set their flag. Lady Vianne sat beside him all the while, an ashen statue with half-lidded eyes whose silent strength kept his tears from falling, from showing her his fear. She knew his fate and their bond frayed to its end, but she could not voice it – she did not wish him to how much pain cut through a mother's heart before she lost her dear son forever.

Down in the dusty dark, his brother came before they took him away, a single dagger pressed into Yvad’s hands.

_“Our sister will be waiting for you, but I don’t know what lies ahead.” Tristan reached out to clasp Yvad’s forearm in familiar reverence, the elder’s span calloused by a sword hilt and broader than his own. It was warm and bolstering, something that brothers should share among such trials. Yvad knew it would be the last kindness the Trevelyan heir could ever offer him. For the first time, however, he did not see his Lordship so readily in his brother's face as he had before. In that span, he saw only his brother and the ghost of his sister without the shadows of the single tie that bound them. “Just try not to set the world on fire if you can.”_

Jackals, every last one of them.

The dagger was the first thing they robbed. For its loss, the templars wore a host of mottled bruises and callous scrapes by the time they had thrown him in a cell, the tower of Ostwick’s Circle rising up into the starlit blackness.

By then, the fight in him distilled. How could he muster that much willpower when he had nothing left? One of the templars, a vicious gleam in steely eyes and a wicked hand, had drained him of every drop of mana he had, even so little in its seedling state. It felt like white fire searing away his very blood, his mind reeling and his body aching as every sense and fibre set itself alight. The beating afterward dulled thanks to that small mercy, but the hurt endured long after. Every nerve screamed in that dank, empty place until their cries rasped and the even sound of a manic heartbeat grew weaker.

And then she was there, cool jade and blue wrapped around him. No joy of reunion formed Mara’s mask then, not even the false contentment she mustered for the father who never said his goodbyes that last day. This was not the fate not the one she had wished for them.

Her magic soothed what it could touch. His mind calmed, the chorus of rage lessened to a murmur. In her touch lingered something lonelier as she supported him from the darkness. Fear? Hopelessness? Disillusion? He could not name it, but she flourished in that single year without him and earned her place. What wonders she could summon with a thought. Could he do the same in that wretched prison? For over a decade, that became their life, her healing his hurts as he buried greater ones. The studies brought him nothing but headaches, his Harrowing barely passed. Had it not been for her, would he be standing now? His magic had always been as wild as his temper, but he cleaved to his own talents. How many storms had he excited in the courtyard, that one place of nature and peace while he lounged in the branches of the ancient willow, if only to feel free to know the rain as it was, to imagine himself beyond those walls?

That place would always be his prison, marking him. Even in Skyhold, every creak and clatter of metal set his teeth on edge. Every hooded glance of a templar brought his blood to boiling.

As gentle as a halla's nuzzle, Mara combed through the dark strands when the man's jaw locked down until the veins of his neck made their own shadows.

“Stop it.”

It chilled more than the hoarfrost rimming her fingertips – she knew what scars ran through her brother’s soul. What nightmare would claim him in the Fade when he slept that night as they dredged up memories best left buried?

* * *

_Knight-Captain Ifan Griffith, a name born of true ignominy._

_A decorated templar of the Ostwick Order, the first time Ser Ifan cuffed Yvad and led his charge to the dungeons to cool his heels every time there sounded a rumour of insubordination. Day in and day out, Mara lied to herself that discipline had its place when the lad’s ire led to mistakenly burned skin and singed armour, but somehow, it seemed more._

_The years grew longer, a steady march. Mara kept Yvad close, guiding his studies beside her own students, rising in the eyes of the First Enchanter to earn both favour and protection. Yet, their bond carried on. Influence, weak but growing, warded away the more fanatical of their guards until not even her mentor could allay the savage beast set against Yvad alone._

_Meek as autumn, the templars never sought his sister ill as she allayed their hurts with the same indiscriminate tenderness she assured for those of her fellows. Mara Trevelyan, a healer through and through. Naïve. Idealistic. Peacekeeper. To her, those of the Order served a noble purpose, lives of simple work sacrificed to protect them and the people._

_But how many times had they all abused that gentle hand, no thanks offered? Yvad cautioned her daily that her wasted her compassion, but she did not heed him. Trapped in that gilded cage, balance needed to be struck for them to prosper, for her to accept the bars._

_But what if she had heeded him?_

_When she finally bore witness to that violence a single templar wrought, denial filled her soul even as something darker weaves itself a place. Wary of his superior’s dark pleasures, one of the Order secreted her to Yvad when the rest lay in fitful slumber. Into the dank maw they delved, a stark, twisted mirror to the gleaming marble and innocence above. It stunk of blood and despair, urine and vomit like musty perfumes._

_Heart rent asunder and trembling, she could not decipher how long it had been since Ser Ifan assured her that all was well. Days? Weeks? Left alone to madness, forced to grapple for life and heal his own wounds with the magic she taught him and others only to have them opened again and more slashed beside them? The chains, laced with lyrium, chafed the reedy wrists raw and bloody, shining beneath their rusted hinges where they hung from the damp walls. The remnants of his robes lay in tatters around emaciated ribs patterned in mauve and sickly green, stained by sweat and refuse._

_How many years had he concealed it, protecting her, spinning tales of scuffles and pranks rather than torture? How many lies had she swallowed, too trusting?_

_All Yvad knew was that some men relished in the suffering of those given to their power, but power corrupts even devout hearts. They worship in blood to please the gods of themselves where the blade became their creed and woeful cries, their hymnal chants._

_He never forgave._

_He never forgot._

**_What if I cut out those pretty eyes? Can you grow them back?_ **

* * *

 Death would have been better, but neither had been so lucky.

The war’s chorus reached them. Grace stayed death while the rest of them burned. Only a few of the Order gave them mercy but indiscriminating swords and relentless magic found them just the same. Mages and templars both, too many died for nothing more than standing in the tide.

Fear lanced when chaos reigned, a blade raised against Yvad once again. He was a boy again, trapped for existing. A dozen spells tripped on his tongue, but none answered, stifled. His heart beat slower, the battle around him stretched to an icy stillness

And then she was there, always at his back.

Then First Enchanter stole her from him. His life fractured, shards hardening into vengeance - the Conclave left in ruins. True freedom would have been a blessing, a chance for him to breathe without a whetted blade at his nape and worry in his sister’s heart. What did they even pray?

For so long he had thought her dead, his fellows given to anger and loss. Her mentor had been the first of them to die when some turned to demons. Wretched creatures, every one of them. But others begged the templars for mercy - they were no better. Most found no peace either way. He slept easier with each kill, each life the chaos took to survive.

Had she seen him then, would she look at him as she did now?

Months ground away, bloodied and cold. Hunger gnawed. Grand Enchanter Fiona’s offer gave them all a glimmer of hope, but Magister Alexius poisoned it as well. But the rumours of the Inquisition rekindled hope’s life even as the Venatori doused that freedom in flames.

And like his saviour of old, Mara set herself like a beacon before him, all light and controlled vengeance, and stole the chains of Tevinter from them all. He had wanted to find her then, to fall at her feet and know her kindness and comfort once more - were they both not weary of fighting? Herald or some holy thing, she was his sister first. Yet for unspoken purpose, Fiona denied her new protégé a place among those sent to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. He sulked and whined in the camp, lightning crackling in his grasp to mediate the manic storm of his mind.

The cry rose up behind a roar of thunder that shook the world; the sky was whole. How long did he stare up at the emptiness, the venomous greens wiped from the clouds and stars until ashes and fire rained from the heavens.

Haven burned.

Bleeding. Crying. Dying.

Among the huddled masses clawing for life, his heart seized. Why did the Maker only take from him? Yet when he saw the Commander carry her from the blizzard, alive?

_Maker, why are You so cruel?_

“It’s nothing.” Like he had when they were children, he tugged her into the envelope of his arms and sucked in the scent of sandalwood in her hair - he missed the honeysuckle she used to wear. Drawing his feet up until they no longer hung over the too-soft mattress, he tucked her under his chin. He let out a yawn, a forced but telling thing. “I’m just glad you’re safe, sister. But I'm tired, now. You can yell at me in the morning. ”

Try as she might, Mara’s chiding dissolved from her tongue. To scold him, to beg for answer would yield her nothing. Having her brother in her grasp, safe and whole, was enough.

And so they slept.

**To be continued...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this is an AU, a what-if. I had not expected Yvad (and Tristan, their elder brother) to become so prominent – I only hope I do him justice. Poor baby! I’m sorry, Slugette! But he and Dorian should get some time to talk in the next chapter… I hope. I’m still kinda winging this one.


	3. Mentem Mortalia Tangunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good Commander and Mara confide some secrets and Yvad finds respect for a Tevinter after his own actions.

_My mind is my own._  
_Mortal and fragile, broken._  
 _Seeking our frayed threads._

Morning painted itself in rose and gold, the early light cresting over her brother’s face while he slept on. Sleek larks dipping and pecking along stone the balustrade gave Mara little thought where she basked in the fresh air beside them. She swayed, wrapped in the simple beauty of the sight of the Frostbacks as the summons from the Inquisition’s Commander, held in her grip, fluttered in the breeze. The larks chirped while she read, the neat lines given to a peculiar sharpness as if the words they formed were weapons. Without delay, the messenger had pressed the letter into her hands and shuffled on his way before she could question it. Often times, such missives waited until Sister Leliana dragged her from her bed to break their fast with Lady Montilyet, long after her mind cleared and the ordeals of the Fade loosened their clutches.

The letter read that the matter wasn’t urgent, but the Commander requested her presence just the same.

Maker, had Yvad said something that caused the knight to worry?

Impulsive and stubborn, she doubted he walked away from that office without some strained words between him and the former templar. Did Yvad even know? Not once had Mara seen the Commander purge an area of magic or raise a hand to a mage. He fought as their soldiers fought, a blade and shield his aide to their cause. The haze of lyrium ebbed from him, a breath of its metallic tang and nothing more. She had known templars in Ostwick who worked with less than most. Nevertheless, the memory caused a shiver to lick cold fire down her spine.

 _Mages and templars, compromise would have been better._ The last toggle of her garb slid into place. A glance caught her brother’s face, the brow furrowed. _Let him sleep_. _Let him stay safe_.

She pressed a kiss to his cool, pale cheek and  tugged the covers over him before she left the silence of her chamber behind her. Skyhold’s stone echoed with each step of her boots, a hollow sound. No servants filled her portion of the greater tower, the hour given to the more necessary tasks which kept the great place alive and functional. Yet with each of those reverberating steps, she felt the burden of the Inquisitor’s crown.

 _I don’t want this_.

“That’s quite a serious look for you, dear lady. Careful now, or you’ll ruin that lovely, innocent face of yours.” Dorian’s playful grin melted some of the tension from Mara’s features. Oozing pride and amusement, elegant fingers reached for his moustache and twirled the tailored curl. “Shall I alert the others of a coming storm?”

 _Funny you should mention that…_ Mara batted away the wayward thought, its sting a vibrant chord. Yvad, for all his anger and his struggles, slid back from the edge time and time again. If he could find his place in Skyhold, he would survive. Would he not? No more fighting for his life, no more fear of templars – her Commander weeded out those who bore any mad streaks or ill-will. Those who failed to appease the knight’s assurance were slated to a different service rather than allow them to stay among their allied mages who, in turn, held freedom for as long as they proved they could handle its responsibility. A balance set, a balance maintained.

“I’ll be alright, Dorian.” A weak, but no less warm, smile played itself across Mara’s lips. Her feet shifted, a thousand thoughts rippling, seeking an accord. “Um… I know it may be more than I have any right to ask, but could you keep an eye on my brother today? Make sure he eats? He’s bit on edge right now, but he’d respect you.”

“I think I should be flattered, yes?”

His laughter, so effortless, only made her feet shift more. Her teeth worried at her bottom lip, sleep still giving them an ugly flavour from the morning’s haste – she made a note to slip into the kitchen for something wash it away.

“I only thought –”

“You, my dear, are too naïve for this life.” Full of pomp, the altus proffered her an easy but lively bow, tugging at his forelock. “Fear not, Inquisitor. Off you go to see what our rigid Commander might need of you. Leave the boy to me.”

Dorian Pavus – a man of graceful camaraderie. The touch of a smile pulled on Mara’s lips, her shoulders growing less stiff and her heartbeat’s chaos, curbed. A mage of Dorian’s skill and prowess, and with that same penchant for lightness at the precipice of trials, embodied a seed of hope. The man had seen the misdeeds of his fellow countryman and worked to make them right even as he treasured his freedom and understood its risks. Trusting her brother to Dorian felt somehow easier than she gave herself credit for. Perhaps it was his mannerisms, perhaps it was his strength to give himself to a cause for a greater good than his own.

“Oh, Mara?”

“Yes?” Spinning on her boot heel, she caught the mage’s gray stare full of mirth.

“Your Spymaster swore me to secrecy, but you must know - the good Commander can be a bit handsy when it comes to you. Maybe even a bit possessive.”

Dorian winked and Mara’s ears burned scarlet.

On hushed whispers, they had all hidden secrets of how the Commander carried her from the blizzard after Haven fell. How he stood guard until Mother Giselle ushered him away and the others called him into counsel. How he kept their allies and soldiers strong through their flight from the ruins, an exodus of the fear-stricken and the dying beneath red-washed stars. If Dorian bowed to anyone in command aside from her, it was Cullen Stanton Rutherford.

“That’s it. That’s the flustered look you need.” A hand waved her away, that smirk never ceasing to curve the corners of his moustache even high before spinning on his heel. Tevinter leathers shirred with each measured movement, the buckles agleam. He paused mid-step to flash her another smile over his shoulder, broader than before. “Well, don’t keep the man waiting.”

It took nearly an hour, the sun at last fully in the sky as she paced the wallwalk by the guard tower, before she gathered the will to answer the summons.

* * *

 

“ – I will defer to Cassandra’s judgement.”

 _Kirkwall took too much. I can still feel it and the lyrium in my veins. Consuming me. Joining the Inquisition, I thought I might control my life again._ A second chance. That was what the Seeker offered and he accepted the commission, his hands shaking even then. _Joining the Inquisition, I thought I might control my life again. I still hear its call, its sweet song._

Stopping lyrium signed the man’s death sentence, if not a dark descent into madness and suffering. Yet, Mara understood that drive, that passion. He had poisoned himself for the Order’s sake and wanted to breathe without its leash. How could she not respect that?

He asked no more of her than that, to listen and reserve her judgements. A clean, honest exchange among oiled steel and rough, leather-bound tomes. It answered as many questions as it created, but it was enough. Cassandra would do her duty. That, they did not doubt as the silence filled them.

“No one deserves to suffer. No one…”

The words tumbled from her lips, unbidden yet true - friend or jailor, she has seen the torment to befall templars forced from the lyrium, let alone the willing. But here, it _felt_ different than the pull of a healer’s heart. Unbidden, compassion yielded to a deeper call. Maker, she should have left then. She should have turned and saw to the latest reports and tried to understand them, make sense of strategy and played the Game. Wearing her crown and protecting their people was what they needed and yet she stood fast, rooted to that place by Dorian’s teasing and an unclear hunger.

“But it is _my_ choice, Inquisitor. My crucible.”

Gold-flecked irises, ringed by the barest hints of green tore themselves away from the weathered case, something haunting and lonely staring back. A tic pulsed in his tightly clenched jaw. Inside, she sensed the claws of memory carving their scars, renewing their pain. He held her gaze for a time, considering his next words with the utmost care.

“If I may ask, you spent years in the Circle - they could not all have been good.”

Taken from the armour of his mask, he craved validation, some glimmer of an accord. Could she give that to him? Cullen knew she could see it, see the subtle, guarded meandering of his thoughts. He saw the same in her, unease matched by intrigue. A half-forgotten taste. He had not forgiven himself for Haven any more than he had forgiven himself for the nightmares of Kinloch Hold and the massacre in the Gallows. They all plagued him, every night haunted by screams and the blood dripping from his hands. How many times had he woke, grasping at the threads, labouring for breath and choking back a pitiful cry? He saw his dreams in every shadow, saw the dying and the dead peering from the gloom. His fingers shook as he had written his missive to the Inquisitor that morning. The quill had been pressed until the sharpness was blunted. It hid the tremors.

_I’ve lost too many in this life. You are our one hope against this tide. If we lost you –_

Among the swirl of snow, finding the Herald again when all seemed lost awoke something else, shelved and caked in dust for many years. He defined it as trust, but he could not shake it of something more. He was the Inquisition’s Commander – it was his duty to protect the Herald, their beacon and anchor. He was meant to protect her, was he not? Or did he crave more than was allowed? To know what lay beneath the halo of faith they placed on a single woman?

_What are you to me?_

He never looked away as she spoke.

"It was bearable. Fair for some. Less for others. Perhaps I only speak of the good because that was all I wanted to see, but I've seen the pain on both sides. There is a purpose to the Circles and the Order, but too many have lost sight of it.” An unsteady inhalation somehow kept her grounded even as her nerves sparked beneath her skin. What horrors had he seen that not even Varric, storyteller and spy, could share? Her life in the Circle fared better than Yvad’s, but it mattered little compared to the blackest rumours she heard from the few who survived the Fall. “You'd best be wary of my brother, Commander. Yvad wouldn't understand the trials you face nor the risk you've taken and would curse you like the rest of the Order. He sees a reminder of one in power who went to great lengths to serve his own madness and he cannot – he _will_ not shake it. I only wish I could’ve spared him that rage – I had a chance and I stayed my hand. If there is _anyone_ to blame, it was _me_ for trusting our own Knight-Commander alone.”

How had they expected one man to marshal the cancer growing among the ranks? It had been too much to ask then, and it was too much to ask now.

 _It was not the life I wanted for my brother, for either of us. I failed. I did everything within my power and I still failed him and the others. I should’ve –_ She swallowed around the thick lump in her throat. Mara titled her head to watch the weary features contort, caught between wide-eyed surprise and brutal sympathy. _No, I’m not a killer. I won’t. I want order from this chaos, but… Maker, will I fail the Inquisition the in same way?_

"You cannot blame yourself for it. You did what you could. Believe me when I say that perhaps… perhaps we are more alike than I care to admit.” Scratching at the back of his neck, Cullen battled his conscience to hide how deep her answer struck, the stain of pink creeping like spring into a flower bud and mottled with an angrier crimson. _You deserve better than this._ _Perhaps I ask too much_ , he thought as he watched her wince as the velvet petals of her lips parted. A hand twitched, meaning to beg for her forgiveness but she stayed.

 _I don’t understand._ Without words, the man had read the wishes of her heart, a strange invasion of self, and yet it was welcome. The warrior’s pauldrons drooped when some unseen weight lifted itself, the bear fur rustling across metal. Those gilded eyes clung to their flame, but it grew softer, kinder. Tired but seeking – what did he want from her? _Dorian, why did you say such things?_

"A-Alike? I’m… I’m not so sure… I -” The nervous chuckle bubbling in her throat resonated a restrained chord. _What do I say?_

Its balance tipped, part of her mind bade her to continue, to keep the man entranced and distracted. Anything to soothe. A pittance compared to the torment. Yet only that hurt spilled from her thick, cottoned tongue in an untamed flood whose tide she could not abate.

"You know,  I-I think you would have liked Ostwick’s Knight-Commander. Ser Conleth despised lyrium even while he took it. Called it the ‘poison for his tea’.”

Foolish old man, she regaled for her Commander. Long in the tooth, Ser Conleth Mackay sought only for their safety and the safety of those around them. The news of the Fereldan Circle ten years ago heralded a need for order, but he gave his knights their head, trusting them and the mages themselves for prosperity rather than fostering malcontent. The mages there mastered their powers without fear, or prejudice as long as they maintained balance – they lost a few to Harrowings every year, but they survived. Outside closed doors, peace reigned.

Ignorance was bliss. How could they have known the depths of madness to which some would plunge? What demons the desperate would call? What righteousness others would claim to justify their actions? What good would more fear bring?

One rotten soul with a voice – that was all it took.

The Knight-Commander perished for that misjudgement and wilful blindness. Yvad had not seen what it wrought, but his own men, those goaded and disillusioned by Ostwick’s former Knight-Captain, murdered him for trying to hold on to what the Order once stood for.

A dark day, indeed. Her eyes slid closed around its memory: _A demon of man. Ifan Griffith, his blade slick with the blood of mage and templar alike._ _The Knight-Commander, blood welling from lips and side, waved her magic away._

_“I’m sorry,” Conleth murmured. The shiny, slippery ropes of his insides peeked through his fingers. He coughed, blood spattering onto the tattered robes that pillowed his head in her lap. Beneath the neatly trimmed, silver-streaked beard, his skin was tinged a green and sickly pale. He coughed again, a wracking spell. A curse ripped from his mouth, a shaking hand fisted in her bloodied clothes as the light of life began to dim. “Go. Protect your brother before Ifan can find him. Mara, I’m s-sorry… I should’ve p-protected b-b-both… of… yo-”_

A good man died then. She would be damned to see another.

“Even if it is beyond recompense, we need good men like you, those seeking to better themselves from that corruption.”

Maker, had they not suffered enough?

Those eyes opened to a new world tainted by the same blood, the same pain. Yes, the breach sat closed but demons still roamed. Corypheus still sought her end, and the power of a god. And this man, the shattered pieces of himself lashed together by sheer will, still wished to risk death for a chance for more than what the Order had become and no longer tie himself to its corruption. Her brother and the Commander, two sides of a familiar coin. _Maker, what can I do?_

“Cullen, if you need anything, please let me know.”

His desk creeked, leather gloves releasing their strained grip on the thick Fereldan hardwood. Silence poured into the space between them in which the Inquisitor’s words suspended, a diaphanous cloud where he could pluck what he willed from it. Heavy boots added their chorus to the quiet rush of blood in their veins until he straightened before her. In that moment, Cullen felt less of a knight, a servant of righteousness, and more of a mere man, the lustre worn away until only the mortality of him remained. In that moment, he possessed nothing but that fleeting breath, the bureau protesting against his weight when he leaned against it.

This was his crucible. His penance. He was better than the man who caused her family and so many others such pain, was he not? Beyond the corruption? Yet, to be reminded of it, of what _could_ be… Its lance lodged far from his grasp, too far to be drawn out, and wove the guilt tighter. _Had I known you before I left the Order, what would I feel now rather than this… **ache**?_

_What are you to me?_

“I’m far from a good man, My Lady.” What good there was, he could not see it. He only saw his duty, what they needed of him. His choice was his one vice, his one hope beyond their survival and the success of the Inquisition’s cause. _I need to be free of it_. _I need to be better than what was made of me._

“You are who you choose to be.”

His glove slipped on the polished edge, eyes thrown wide until the hazel hues narrowed to the thinnest rims at the sound of her voice. It was the same look he had given her in Haven as she walked out to a death that never came, the same look of guilt coupled with something undefined. Gentle fingers itched to soothe, to reach out – Maker, she wanted to touch him. Compassion craved its creed. It pleaded to reach inside, to drag every dark thing screaming out into the light and will them to burn. Torn, her chest banned with unseen iron, her very breath a struggle. _Dorian, what have you done to me?_

“Lady Trevelyan, I –”

“Commander?! Commander, we’re under attack! Goats, ser! Crashing on our walls!”

Red-faced and puffing, the scout hurtled through the half-open door. Hinges screeched and the wood crashed against the wall, rattling military manuals and old maps on their shelves. This was her Commander’s domain, not hers.

She knew when to yield.

Mara stepped back, her pale pink tongue wetting dry lips. That faraway glaze spirited itself away and left only the crafted guise of control, of power. Whatever the warrior had meant to say or ask, she resigned herself to another time. He confided a dark enough fear, even in half-measures - why burden him further? _We all have our demons to fight, don’t we?_

“By your leave, Commander.”

That look transformed into one of longing, of exasperation. A brighter air infected rather than uncover what lay beneath that costume. He would have rather she stayed, a stranger need, but he knew better. He always did. _I promised you that I will not see us fall again. This is what we must do._

“Are you sure you don’t want to take care of this yourself?”

“Would you fault me for being disinclined?”

Calmer and unfettered, his laughter lightened that gloom drawn over them like the glint of veilfire from her fingertips.

“Not at all. But you do realize you may have to in the end. You may not have sought a crown, but you wear it just the same.” Duty forged his mask and the man shoved away in a single stride, the Commander of the Inquisition levered into his place – whatever he felt, whatever troubled his mind, the Inquisition towered above them like the Maker himself.

 _What are you to me?_ He asked again and found no answer, the sound of armour clanking and heavy steps drowning out the sway of hips and the subtle curve of a sad smile.

* * *

 

Although he tried to hide it, that genuine smile, even so brief, set Mara’s heart to a hummingbird thrum fluttering within her breast. It proved enough to defer the weight of her crown and conveyed her into Sister Leliana and Lady Montilyet’s well-meaning grasps. It carried her back onto the path which fate and the people chose for her, accepted for their sake rather than her own.

 _I never wanted this_.

Together, the others fussed and chided their noble mage. Clucking hens, the pair of them, as they ushered her to the laden table, the plate of fruit and mild cheeses taunting her from its silver face.

“The Inquisitor should not forget her meals, even so late. The last thing we need is for you fall to starvation or malnourishment. Oh, and while you’re here, Lord Henley requests your approval on…”

Mara surrendered and the ambassador rambled on until she herself heard one in five syllables, one lazy finger chasing a grape from one edge of her plate to the other. A silent plea murmured through the tide as she stared out into the mountains, sunlight etching golden shafts onto the snow and a riot of colour onto the table through stained glass.

_Yvad, I pray you can forgive me. This was not the life I wanted for us. But I will give you what happiness we may have…_

Shifting, one cloud drifted further and brilliant blue crystal painted her silver platter in its glow. For one moment all she saw was the shade of lyrium and the Commander’s careworn features swam behind her eyes.

_Damn you, Dorian - I wish you had said nothing. Perhaps you see something where there is nothing._

* * *

 

_“Yvad, they’re coming for you. How long can you hide it? We feel it inside you. Calling. She will cast you out for the blood on your hands. Why not give in now and spare yourself that pain?”_

_Fire, licking flames. Touching. Pulling. Hungry hands poked and prodded, goading._

_“Come with us, Yvad. Free yourself and take your freedom.”_

_“I want… I want to be –”_

The young Trevelyan’s head spun, wrenched from the Fade. Gentle hands held his shoulders, their tremors vibrating the large palms. Clear, grey eyes, their dark lashes feathered across sculpted cheeks, offered him an anxious, wide stare.

“Are you all right? Nasty beasts. Makes me wonder why those demons called to you.”

The touch of magic coiled around them, a soothing aura. An altered vibe, not like his sister’s but familiar. So close, so tangible that he could almost wrap himself in its cloak. The Tevinter mage struck him, both in presence and power. Every line, every movement testament to his breeding. Charm radiated from his pores. Yvad, despite himself, felt a blush creep into his ashen skin, a betraying veil beneath an unruly, tangled mess of ebony.

“What? What’s wrong? Ah, stunned by my beauty, lad? You wouldn’t be the first.” A sinful touch of vanity flared in his speech, that pride as illuminating as the sun itself. With a playful pat on the back, he stood to give Yvad a chance to collect himself and slip from the covers. Like he had before, the altus bowed to him, fingers spiralling from his brow, as he had the young man’s sister and gestured to the clothes left on the edge of the bed. “There we are. Dorian Pavus, at your service. But please, call me Dorian? Her Worship begged for my prowess and here I am. Now hop to it, the meals around here are far from exquisite, but I'm famished, as I suspect you are. The Fade is an exhausting place.”

A rush, a heady pulse of charisma and power undulated and entice. Caught in its tide, Yvad threw himself into dressing behind the privacy screen, a fine doublet and clean breeches left for his use – Mara, spoiling him before he even woke. But that fine fabric and gleaming toggles garnered little more than a languid study before he shrugged out of the sleep-worn robes he had fallen asleep in.

“So, you’re a mage? From Tevinter?” _Maker, Yvad, you couldn’t think of anything better to talk about?_ He chided himself, the cold metal biting into the pads of his fingers. He felt like a young man again in Ostwick’s tower, something new and uncertain set before him. Even the clothes slithered over his skin, an alien caress.

"Isn't that obvious?” Dorian chuckled, a long leg cast over the side of the Orlesian sofa’s arm and a letter slipped from a hidden pocket to read. A mere blip of mockery sewed itself into his speech, but he gave them every drop of jocularity that he could muster for the boy’s sake. _Poor boy, locked in a tower for all your life – my father would have snatched you up as an apprentice in a single beat of his shrivelled heart._ “You southern breeds need to get out more. All the power in the Maker-given world at our fingertips yet demons try to possess us at every turn and a living nightmare is our dreams. Wonderful life, isn’t it? And before you ask, the answer is a resounding _no_. I am _NOT_ a magister. An altus and nothing more."

 _I wouldn’t dream of it_. _But what’s an altus? Bah, I’ll ask him later._

Shuffling out, the doublet a little loose, but otherwise comfortable, Yvad squared his frame. He straightened to his full height and raked a hand through the knots of his hair. Around them, reflected in the mirror, the morning sun shaded them both in its yellow-white cast. The kinks in his back stretched and popped – Mara’s bed, softer than the hard ground and pillows of rock, twisted his body into a stubborn bulk. Hooded, amethyst hues flicked from the pattern of sunlight to the mage splayed out on the cushions and Yvad stilled.

Whatever mirth there had been, it faded. Dorian’s moustache dropped, the pouty press of his lips thinned to a stark line. On the parchment, its words twisted like snakes on the expanse, their very meanings venomous. It hurt to read, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. _Oh, Felix._ _I’m sorry._

“Bad news?” Yvad winced, his countenance contorted – Maker, how callous could he be?

“It’s... ah…” The Tevinter coughed, his gaze thrown to the heavy rug. His nose wrinkled, sniffing. A fake smile, dissected for the lie it manifested. Stiff, guarded movements brought him up onto his light boots, that darkened stare still cast away. “It’s nothing. Come. Let’s relieve ourselves of this dreary place.”

Yvad dare not argue.

* * *

 

Servants, their finery well-kept and worn with pride rather than scorn, bustled past the Tevinter mage and his charge. A few inclined heads drifted by, but no one halted their unhurried steps. The steps split, the great hall one direction, and the gardens lay below the other flight. Scents of elfroot and delicate flowers wafted up the stairwell, looping through the summer air. They hung in it, cooler in the mountains than in the valleys below.

 _Perhaps the Inquisitor would grant me leave to steal some from the garden for Felix._ Dorian led them down, the herbs and blooming buds a spray of every colour. They danced, bowls of petals and tender leaves kissing breezes lighter than any heart. What were flowers for, but to remind him of how fragilely their lives dangled, a single thread pulled or changed, able to end something so alive? _Maker, man! The poor girl asked you to look after her brother. You can pretend, can’t you? And you’re lucky that he’s not hard on the eyes, either._ Dorian sucked in a steadying breath. _Ah, there we go._

“You know, I never did ask, but please tell me you don't have some fancy title like your sister.” The Tevinter’s fingers brushed the tops of a pastel bud, vines of translucent emerald curling up its stalk. “Imagine my surprise to see her cringe at the very sound of it.”

As if they moved against nature, a patrol of templars clanked along the covered terrace. Leftovers from Haven rather than the few to escape Therinfal Redoubt, they marched with less fear, less triggered by the shift of shadows and aura of magic fed by the mages scurrying through the keep like human beings rather than pure sinners. Yet they rattled Yvad’s bones. Every ringing step and swing of a sheath sent the white forks of lightening crackling at the young man’s fingertips.

“No title and I certainly don't want one.” Violet fire glinted, his eyes mere slits as he spoke through grinding teeth. The magic continued to flicker, to jump and snap. Ozone curled in his nose, a hint of rain that would not come lest he called it. “Unless it means I’m free to knock a few of those templars on their arses.”

“With all the red templars mucking about, I think that may be in order. But for now, you might want to put it away.” Siphoning off Yvad’s wild magic was easy enough, but it took several shaky inhales and exhales for the Trevelyan to calm himself. Degree by degree, the light dissipated until only the faintest buzz tickled across the palms. Yvad needed little coaxing to slip back into the halls and down into the kitchens. The cook pressed two plates into the Trevelyan’s hands before either could speak, the hammered dishes laden with a creamy cheese in its white rind from Orlais, and fresh-baked honey bread, the light loaves shining with a sheen of butter. With no more warmth than a distracted dog, the woman then sent them away, sneering between pursed lips about the cat as Dorian snatched a sprightly wine from Skyhold’s hidden cellar rather than the vinegar vintage often procured by the steward. Shooed from the hearth and back out into the open air, they worked their way up the battlements. There, crumbling grey stone became a table and uncomfortable seats where the two could feast in peace, far from the bustle of pilgrims and soldiers.

The sounds of chewing were lost to the wind and the clash of soldiers down in the lower bailey. It made Dorian’s skin crawl to be left alone with his own thoughts, the letter heavy against his breast beneath his robe. If the man would let him, anything would ease its sting, he prayed as he handed the Inquisitor’s brother the wine skin.

“You were in Redcliffe with that Fiona woman, weren't you?”

"Maybe." Bits of bread littered his tunic when he answered. Maker, he had only meant to play the game with such a simple riposte – he saw how glum the man had been since they left Mara’s quarters. _Well done, Yvad. What’s happened to your manners?_ Sheepishly wiping crumbs from his mouth, he swallowed the light wine, the brightness a strange but pleasant mix with the pungent cheese smeared on the bread. Bless that man for such a pairing – a Fereldan red would have ruined the flavour.

But the Tevinter smiled despite Yvad’s folly, even if it was just a lonely, little stretching of the lips.

“At least tell me that Alexius didn't rope you into that chaos."

“No. I… uh…” Yvad coughed and wiped more crumbs from the fine doublet, taken aback by the far-away echo that carried in the man’s words. Truth be told, he had seen little of Redcliffe once the Tevinter mages arrived. “I only knew his son. Mara taught me some alchemy and healing magic while we were in the Circle. Fiona sent me to tend to him while she spent much of her time arguing with the magister.”

"You knew Felix?" The smile faded, ripped free. He pulled the letter from the folds of letter and laid on the weathered stone as if was some precious jewel, his fingertip caress a long line down the neatly creased parchment. "He... died. Not long after he returned to Tevinter. That poor boy. Spent his last breath trying to paint your sister in the light she deserves."

Ice slipped into the Trevelyan’s stomach, rivulets of sweat streaking down his nape. _Maker!_ _He never did say what he was sick with. I didn’t know he was going to die. Fuck, what do I say?_

"For... I mean, for the little I knew of him, he was a good man.” More truth – Felix had been nothing but accommodating during his lucid moments. The only secret thing they shared was the one night he had asked Yvad to not tell his father that he had gone to Chantry. A seemingly innocent thing at the time, but then his sister came and everything changed. Yet Yvad could not forget the sympathy Felix shared even as he swayed, ashen and frail. He would not forget the hot food shared at his own table when the Tevinter should have treated him like nothing more than a commoner and slave. He could not forget the welcome ear which Yvad returned in kind, the rare moments of laughter arrayed in warmth before the man could barely stand. He would never forget the burden the man said he felt, apologizing for a sickness he could not control as he prayed into the wee hours when he thought no one listened. _I wish I had gotten to know him better._ “Reminded me a bit of my sister, worrying about his father."

Dorian snorted, a forced thing as he took back the wine skin. _It seems all those that matter to me fall away. Even if all the old stories are true, I want to do good here._

"Fiona must've known exactly who you were to our Inquisitor. Probably saved your life by keeping you so close to the magister's son so he wouldn't send his gaze that way.” The sweetness cloyed on Dorian’s tongue, hints of pear and apple mingling. It made him think of different things, of thing he should be grateful for in the world. And for a moment, the wind-tousled strands of ebony and amethyst hues cleared the tempest of his loss. “But at least you seem a decent sort. Perhaps I’ll let you buy me a drink later.”

**To Be Continued…**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was actually harder to write for some reason. No idea… and at this stage of the pairings, everything seems awkward. Maybe that’s it. Any road, may it please. My apologies for the space of time since my last post – between my own health and the busy schedule of myself and my beta, it’s taking longer than anticipated. 
> 
> Meanwhile, I really want to kick Cullen and Mara right now – they were easier to write without adding Dorian as matchmaker. Yet, Yvad and Dorian themselves work better… but I guess it fits here? Any thoughts?

**Author's Note:**

> Again, this is an AU. And admittedly, I don't know how it's going to play out, but it should focus more on the familial bonds and history between Yvad and Mara as well as their relationships with those they care about and their choices.
> 
> Will be done in small installments as the muse takes me. And I've decided on a whim to give the chapters Latin titles. No idea why.
> 
> Any road, I intend to work on this when I don't have the muse for my [Order and Chaos](http://archiveofourown.org/series/188669) series, probably even after that one is finished.


End file.
